Place Writing Series.


I’m stood outside the porch, ready to photograph the rising sun behind a copse in the churchyard at All Saints, Billesley. The morning light has washed the fold of the day, until it strengthens its grip and ignites strange lumps and bumps in the nearby fields revealing the site of a deserted village. As the clouds evaporate, I take a few photographs and feel my confidence rising. Momentarily, the sun flares out above the haze, and the church becomes the touch-paper to an explosion of colour amongst the swaying tree canopy. Summoned by a blast of light through the porch from the east window, I enter the pocket-sized nave.

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